Tracking Yes - A Guide to Everyday Magic
Lily ready for whatever.
* This is the story that ignited Tracking Yes as both an ethos and a captivating way of moving through life. Thanks to Martha Beck and her amazing writing Masterclass for sparking the magic, and thanks to Lily-the-good for leading the way.
We were gathered around a table in the tiny, bustling top shack that was home base for Whistler Ski Patrol. The sun was setting, the lifts had just closed and the Patrol team was gearing up to head out for final sweep of the mountain, looking for skiers who had not yet made their way safely to the bottom.
Waiting to train at the top of Whistler/Blackcomb - January 15th, 2014
Six dogs were waiting outside. Some were curled into tight balls, heads nestled into their underbellies for warmth while others lifted their noses into the approaching night, decoding messages that travelled along currents of frosty air.
‘We’ were six Avalanche Rescue Dog professionals on a week long training course, waiting for the mountain to fully close so we could embark on a night training exercise. We were going out into the darkness with our dogs, using headlamps to guide our way to a devised scenario that had been set up somewhere unknown to us on the mountain.
It was an ‘avalanche burial site’, a team had come up earlier in the day to hide 20 human-scented wool sweaters. The sweaters were buried three to four feet deep in the snow in various locations over a 1,000-square foot area, mimicking the scent of human bodies caught in a mass casualty avalanche.
This was an advanced course—by now I’d done countless hours of training, some in organized courses like this, and hundreds more on my own. I’d pack Lily into the car and drive up to local ski hill, burying articles and skiing after her through the deep snow as she learned to track and dig them out. We worked as a team to find buried skiers, building the skill to move quickly through demanding terrain and relying on one another’s unique strengths as we developed an unshakeable bond of trust.
Sitting inside the safety of the hut waiting for the call to action, I was acutely aware of a growing discomfort and anxiety. I was worried about Lily outside with a pack of dominant dogs—in particular a massive German Shepard who had been intimidating her all week. She’d steered a wide berth whenever we were in his presence, but now she was tied up in the dark right beside him.
I was also battling my own familiar sense of intimidation. There were six trained professionals in the room, but in my mind, there were five. Them. The others, the golden ones.
And then there was me, and my story.
I did not belong in this group. They were extraordinary, infinitely more trained and skilled than I was, and I suspected they knew it. I was an imposter who had somehow managed to slip in undetected, and it was only a matter of time until the jig was up.
I was not making shit up. I had concrete evidence and my mind was busy delivering it, conjuring a memory from the previous year’s course. It was the final morning and we’d just joined the head of Mountain Safety from the ski hill who was taking us into the backcountry for a day to assess our mountain travel skills. He was directly behind me in the lift line, and I was watching the ‘highly qualified people’ on the team load the chairs ahead of me, one by one swinging their backpacks onto the seat beside them as they loaded.
It was my practice to ride the lift with my pack on, leaving my hands free for my poles and dog, but as I skied into the loading platform I made a last minute decision to do what they were all doing and took my pack off. Distracted by the extra time that took, I lost sight of the chair rolling around the bull wheel and was caught off guard as it slammed into me, knocking me off my feet and planting me face down in the snow. I lay there doing the math…how many pairs of eyes were focused on this complete lack of competence, and what were those eyes thinking?
Coming back to the present here in the warm hut, I couldn’t for the life of me remember why I loved doing this work. Right now I was preoccupied with fear, conjuring all manner of new disastrous scenarios and desperately wishing I hadn’t brought myself into yet one more potentially humiliating situation. There was only room for brilliance on this team, and I was not that. Next to the others I was painfully ordinary, and wildly out of place.
I was navigating an impractical desire to flee when the call came in.
*****
We stepped into the darkness, headlamps illuminating eager canine eyes. Lily leapt to her feet, tail dancing, at full attention and ready for adventure. As I put on her harness and night light she exuded unchecked passion and enthusiasm; she knew she was going to work, her favourite thing. Time to shine.
I paused for a moment to connect with her, recalling something I’d heard a thousand times in my training: “Trust your dog.”
Skiing ten minutes through the forest, we arrived on scene. Our site commander assigned one dog and handler to each of four quadrants and gave us our marching orders: “You have 30 minutes to locate and excavate five sweaters from your site. Go.”
I unleashed Lily and began assembling my probe and shovel when Bozo-the-Shepard came galloping into our area from the site beside us. I switched into high alert, bracing for a conflict, when to my utter amazement Lily spun on her heels and charged straight at him with a ferocious “Rawwwrr!!”. She was crystal clear: “Back off jackass”.
Surprised and amused by her bravado, I watched him lope off into the night while she turned back to the work at hand.
Her keen nose was in high gear as she took off switchbacking across the slope, fearlessly disappearing into the darkness, the tiny beacon of light on her harness dimming in the distance and then re-emerging as she charged back at top speed. I’d never worked with her at night and was astounded to see that for her it made absolutely no difference—she was using her highly tuned senses and feeling her way.
A dog tracking what she wants lives only in possibility. She looks for yes, isn’t interested in no. Clipping along through a vast expanse of no, she’d suddenly catch a human scent, lift her nose to confirm the yes she’d just detected, and race off in its direction.
She led me to the first four buried sweaters quickly and we had them dug out within 15 minutes of being on site. That left one more to find, but this one required us to step up our game.
The remaining search area was above us on a very steep, wind-hammered slope. As we made our way upward the snow became increasingly bullet-proof, so hard that it was nearly impossible to hold an edge, and my skis began slipping downhill with every step. My heart was racing, attention riveted in the present moment. Losing an edge here would mean a long, dangerous fall; and a lot of lost time climbing back up out of terrain already covered, but we had to keep moving. Every moment the final sweater remained buried represented one more minute a human was trapped under the snow, the clock ticking down on their life.
Assessing the situation it became clear I’d have to take my skis off and boot-kick the final 60 to 70 feet to the top. I knew I’d only be able to get the toes of my hard plastic boots about an inch into the frozen slope—it would be like tip-toeing precariously up a steep, slippery wall. I had zero enthusiasm for this plan, but it was the best of two bad options. I dug deep to gather courage and remembered in the challenge of the moment why I choose these experiences. I feel most alive when I’m pushing past the boundaries of my comfort zone and drawing on my physical, mental and emotional resources to meet what life is offering up.
I wrestled to get my skis off and plant their tails in the rock hard snow, a dodgy balancing act that took all my concentration. That done, I collected my poles and wits, ready to start kicking steps, and looked upward.
High above in the beam of my headlamp I caught a glint of movement. Trying to make it out in the darkness, I began to see more clearly. It was Lily, joyfully glissading downhill on her back toward me. She cascaded past me shaking her head to and fro, proudly exhibiting the final buried sweater she’d just uncovered from 40 feet above.
Mission accomplished.
As my headlamp followed her tumble a million stars cheered us on from the clear night sky. Sharing her delight in the moment I was struck by a wave of profound gratitude for her skill and courage—and massive love for this badass red dog that always had my back.
My relationship with Lily shifted that night.
All the years that I thought my yes had been leading her—I saw her’s had also been leading me.
In our adventures together, on the mountain and off, she continues to show me that when I step out of my stories and curiously engage with life unfolding—I get to play in the realm of magic.
Lily and Liz at work - Mt. Norquay Ski Area, Banff, Alberta.